Cold-blooded
by Awesomelock
Summary: Sherlock become hypothermic after falling into a river and needs some help and John will always help Sherlock when he needs helping. Even the usually icy detective shouldn't be this icy. Fluffy with lots of friendship C:


A/N- This is really just an excuse for some fluffiness that I wrote a while back. Please suspend disbelief in certain parts, I don't know much, just what the internet tells me. Sorry if I get anything wrong, and thank you for reading :)

This is re-uploaded after I *_hem* _deleted all my stuff because my friend found my account and it seemed like the right thing to do, and then I remembered and oh go no.

ENJOY! (hopefully.)

"Sherlock's shining a torch in my face." Anderson whined like an annoying child.

"I'm checking for marks." Sherlock defended himself. When Sherlock didn't stop shining said torch in said face, Anderson was forced to retaliate with a threat.

"I'll shine a laser in your eye."

"I'll shine a firework in your face."

Anderson opened his mouth and John was forced to step in.

"I'll shine a volcano in both of your faces if you don't shut up." It was somewhat uncharacteristically violent, particularly for the kind, harmless, reliable army doctor. However, it worked for the duo; they both simultaneously shut up and turned away.

Lestrade simply observed the scene in awe. It may have been a crime scene with bickering professionals making threats of grievous bodily harm, but John really did have a way of keeping everything under control.

"Anything?" He attempted to break the suffocating silence- which was filled only with angry breaths and the hum of distant and not so distant traffic giving a heartbeat to the otherwise lifeless moment.

"Yes." Sherlock danced around the body, which couldn't have been dead more than four hours judging by the eyes had sunk into the skull and the skin had become an unhealthy shade of waxy purple, though rigor mortis could have only just have set in.

They were pretty much first to the scene.

The 'scene' was almost like a postcard- if a dead body wedged between two parallel stone walls would be printed on a postcard.

"Care to enlighten us?"

"The victim didn't die here. The body must have been placed here. Look at the clothes- they're covered in blood but there's no blood on the ground. Why would someone kill someone, cover them in animal bites and then move them _here_?"

Sherlock stood and straightened his coat. Things were getting slightly more interesting.

"They must have been somewhere they weren't supposed to be- or whoever killed them didn't want to draw attention, but then again- Oh. Oh yes, that _is_ good."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked with his usual mixture of enquiry laced with annoyance.

"The killer wasn't anywhere they weren't meant to be, nor was the victim- that wasn't the problem, that's not why the body was moved. It was the animal! The animal shouldn't have been there!" He glanced at the rows of gashes strung along the victims skin.

"Oh good, we can just interview every dog in London, ask where they were on the night of Friday the 27th." Was Anderson's weak attempt at humour.

John had vague recollections of Mycroft's opinion on sarcasm.

Sherlock then looked at the rather unconvincing 'dog' bites- he had doubts over their origins, dog's teeth shouldn't be so remarkably similar to large cat teeth.

"Judging by the mark on your neck, I know where _you_ were on the 27th, now we just have to question the rest of the dogs in London." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Start by looking at all the missing animal records from the past month. Whoever's behind this couldn't have been looking after whatever did this too long judging by the simple mistakes-" He turned and gestured towards the body, "-they've made thus far."

"A month? In what area?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock began to stalk away, but was stopped by Lestrade who stood in front of him, successfully but temporarily blocking his exit. "Even if we find a shark went missing from London zoo yesterday, it tells us nothing."

Sherlock turned to look at the detective inspector with a sickened glance, but looked away as though even looking at him hurt.

"We still don't know who did it." He added.

"No." Sherlock agreed. "Except where the animal came from, what animal they have, how many they took, their likely habitat, size, noise, what to look out for and who the suspects are. Amongst other things."

And with that Sherlock disappeared in a flash of brilliance, closely followed by his expert blogger, who was hoping to share a taxi with the consulting detective.

6 hours later and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John was slightly peeved. He'd spent an hour painstakingly stuffing spinach and ricotta into stupidly small cannelloni tubes just to please Sherlock, who didn't like mincemeat because there was a possibility of gristle, which, _understandably, _slows his thinking time.

He tried to text Sherlock, asking him where he was. Wondering if Mrs Hudson was hungry.

After half an hour he still had no response.

When he tried to re send the message, he got an automated message back saying that the phone was either out of distance or unavailable.

What was that supposed to mean?

He swore slightly under his breath. Can you freeze cannelloni?

Sherlock shivered violently as he recounted earlier events in his mind.

The animal was obviously large- one does not simply have a seven inch jaw and a body of a Yorkshire terrier.

Unless a dachshund with an abnormally large head is plaguing the city.

But there was nowhere inconspicuous within central London where someone could simply hide a 450 pound beast.

No, he needed to look outside London, which led him, naturally, after some extra 'research', to some woods just outside London. A healthy 45 minute walk from Uxbridge.

He deducted that the reports of alien activity had made it an obvious starting point.

How was he supposed to know there would be someone there who was less than pleased to see a detective poking his nose into a cage full of stolen exotic animals?

The teleshopping was in full swing when John Watson first heard movement at the front door downstairs. He thought it was Mrs Hudson at first, every movement seemed to sound sluggish.

The footsteps were a slight give away though.

An aging woman with a hip problem didn't sound like that. But then it didn't sound much like Sherlock either- too slow, too sloppy.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called out, only for Sherlock to grunt a reply. Oh. It was _him. _The same _him_ who didn't bother coming home for the cannelloni John had slaved over.

John didn't bother to say anything else- not even a friendly hello. He waited for Sherlock to complete the journey up the stairs so John could be very cold towards him.

However, when the journey up the stairs ended in several sickening crunches and loud thuds against the wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs, John forgot everything and was on his toes.

The world was spinning, his genius mind was struggling to make sense of everything and for some god damn reason the floor kept falling out from underneath him.

The spinning walls weren't helping in the slightest.

He'd stopped shivering, and he wasn't cold, so he was better than he had been.

Or he didn't think he was cold. He was cold earlier, but now he felt kind of nice, but tired.

Warm and sleepy. It took several seconds to form a diagnosis due to his mind having frozen over and being reduced to a hypothermic jelly.

Was that a new coat hook on the wall? It went nicely with the wall paper, better than the old one. He looked at it closely. John must have put it up for Mrs Hudson.

Maybe he could hang his coat on it. He struggled with the buttons before giving up. The perils of buttons slightly too big for the button holes had never affected him to this degree before, he better store that information.

Why was the floor so close to the back of his head?

"Sherlock?" John asked as he jumped out from behind the door to their flat, peering down the stairs with caution.

At least his friend wasn't dead, or so he told himself to calm down as he descended the stairs at such speed it could be considered falling whilst upright.

Sherlock simply lay twisted slightly from his fall on his back, staring upwards at a hook with the same thoughtful look he gave pigeons when he thought no one was looking.

"Jesus, what happened?" John asked as he knelt beside the soaking wet detective who looked like he was about to form icicles on his pale skin. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" He asked as he began to take a pulse.

Sherlock's head lulled a bit to the side before he sat up drowsily and looked at John with dilated pupils.

"J-ohn?" He slurred, as if John's name had always had two syllables.

"Shh, Sherlock, stay still." John said as he helped Sherlock against the wall. His breathing was worryingly shallow and slow. His skin was icy to touch, yet not a single shiver came from the consulting detective.

John had a very good diagnosis.

"'othermia." He practically whispered. "M-moderate." He slurred as if he had been drugged _again._

"Severe if we don't get you out those clothes." John said as he gestured to Sherlock's water logged clothes, saturated with water and coldness, which was rapidly soaking into the freshly mopped wood.

"'p stairs." Sherlock mumbled as his eyes blinked shut languidly. Oh shit. "M-z Hudson…" His head rolled around as his only weakly attached to his body.

John began to stand, dragging Sherlock slightly upwards to help.

He had intended on phoning an ambulance, but remembered the threats Sherlock had issued if the case of John ever sending him to a hospital.

"Alright, come on… Careful." John said as he helped Sherlock to stand. He wondered where exactly Mrs Hudson was during all of this, but deemed it too unimportant given the situation.

Sherlock found himself unable to support his weight atop his chicken legs, he was held up almost entirely by John.

The first step was the easiest, the second slightly harder, the third harder yet and slowly but surely they came to a gradual stop.

"How much further?" Sherlock whined like a child on a car journey.

"Not far." John lied. They were only half way, but that was no reason to dishearten the self-proclaimed sociopath.

Just one more step, he said on each step, because he was good at lying to himself.

Sherlock wasn't helping much by dragging his feet and leaning backwards- John doubted if he'd even realise if Sherlock actually passed out.

By the time they reached the top John was out of breath and tired, and Sherlock hadn't broken a sweat. It might have been good if he had.

John immediately began to unbutton Sherlock's coat, wincing under the weight of it as he dragged it off his friend's shoulders. No wonder Sherlock fell down the stairs.

Underneath Sherlock's clothes were completely stuck to him and felt as though they'd been in the fridge, or freezer. Or like they'd fallen into a river in the middle of the night just outside London during winter.

John's now icy fingers began to struggle with Sherlock's shirt buttons.

"Stop." Sherlock slurred as he was led over to the sofa where John sat him down.

"Why?"

"Want to keep my clothes on."

"You can't." John attempted to explain why not, but Sherlock didn't want to listen.

"I need to." His voice was full of desperation.

"Please Sherlock." John wasn't above begging.

"Okay."

John was somewhat taken aback at how easy it was to get the detective onto his side, but wasn't about to complain as he wriggled Sherlock's trousers down to his ankles. Well this was awkward.

Sherlock probably didn't know what he was agreeing to.

Once Sherlock had been stripped down to his underwear he was forced to sit down whilst John ran around the flat collecting hot water bottles, blankets and duvets to slowly mummify the consulting detective.

John grabbed a pair of socks off the table, a hat and an extra blanket.

John quickly slipped the hat over the top of Sherlock's messy curls. He looked rather strange, he decided, with his unruly curls ruled.

"Foot." John ordered. There was some wriggling under the covers until a pale foot poked out the covers. John began to slip a sock over Sherlock's foot when he began to protest.

"Please, Sherlock." John begged slightly. He didn't want Sherlock losing a toe or something dreadful to frost bite or the likes, though he realised that was unlikely since Sherlock was in a warm room, the only coldness came from his body himself, which wasn't cold enough to cause frost bite.

Eventually, Sherlock looked like a massive bee hive curled up on the sofa. John admired his handiwork. He offered Sherlock tea, but Sherlock refused.

After a while Sherlock still looked pasty and was suffering still from slow breaths like the coldness had literally frozen him into slow motion.

He remembered his training. He remembered that this was no time to be prude. That the pair of them would just have to swallow their ego.

After stripping to the bare minimum- just a vest and boxers, he found himself pushing back the covers and slipping in beside Sherlock. He hadn't anticipated how damningly awkward it would be.

Sherlock lay half-conscious dying of hypothermia and struggling to breath and he was worrying about his manly pride? He pushed everything aside and wrapped an artless arm around his friend, shivering at how cold he was.

Sherlock suddenly clung to him like he was a magnet, shuffling closer until he could leech entirely off John's body heat.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"Shh." John hushed him, but sounded more like a hissing snake.

How the bloody hell did Sherlock manage to get home? He was genius if he managed to get home in that dazed and trippy state.

Sherlock snuggled slightly closer.

John was in no doubt that he would be in trouble with Sherlock when the consulting annoyance was more aware, but decided to make the best of what he had.

_Fin._


End file.
